Sometimes I wonder why we get so many and some years <br />I think shall I send any. <br />Then they start coming through the door and before you know <br />it there's a pile on the floor. <br />One from uncle Jack which comes every year without fail <br />who's mind is still with it but his old and frail. <br />He never forgets to send a card but you can tell by his <br />writing that this may be his last Christmas regard. <br />Designer cards full of sparkle and folly, ones with Christmas <br />trees and wreath's of holly. <br />Reindeer, Snowmen, coach and horses all these cards <br />just streching our resources. <br />Filled with verses of tideings and good cheer and most of <br />them wishing you happy new year <br />So where are the cards of the Christmas Nativity with kings <br />Shepherds, and all the simplicity. <br />The beautiful cards where Christ was born in a manger so <br />meek and forlorn; with Mary and Josepth on that Christmas <br />Morn. <br />Cards that remember what Christmas is all about, somehow <br />they have dried up like a river in a drought. <br />The Christmas Card which every year becomes an <br />extention caused only by a simple Victorian invention. <br />Every Christmas there is another name added to the list <br />that same old cramp always returns to the wrist.<br /><br />sylvia spencer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/christmas-cards/
